


color me you

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Getting Together, M/M, handjob, inspired by skam france, yes the painting scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25801540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There's a misunderstanding. A group of meddling but well-meaning friends. A problem solved and different shades of rainbow around them.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	color me you

“This is stupid,” Tony sighs, pain brush dropping with a plop into the paint can. Dark blue mixing with bright yellow, Tony couldn’t give a fuck about them.

“Speak for yourself. Personally, I find this very soothing,” Clint shrugs, swirling white into pink and marvelling at the pastel.

Rhodey aims a kick at his side, ignoring Clint’s protest to address Tony, “What’s going on?” He asks.

Tony gives an abortive shrug, “Nothing, I just feel,” he pauses to pull in a breath and exhales it out loud, “You guys aren’t even responsible for this,” he waves at the pathetic mural that needs repainting.

Clint stands up from his crouching, going to paint a stroke of pastel pink over the faded black ink of ‘Work Hard Study Smart’. All three of them scrunch their noses in distaste.

“Lighter,” Clint decides.

“We told you we don’t mind,” Rhodey tells Tony.

“I’m having all the fun,” Clint dribbles more white, beaming up at them.

Tony rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant -,”

“What is it then?”

Tony tries to wave it off, but Rhodey’s stare means business so he caves in and admits, “Rogers’ supposed to do this.”

“What’s going on with you two?” Nat asks from her seat at the back of the room. She’s too cool to paint is her excuse.

Tony turns from her to find two more pairs of eyes on him. He shrugs, picking up his own paint brush, wishing they’d accept that for an answer and drop the topic. But they’re still looking when he glances up from the brush so he sighs, shrugging again.

It’s not like they don’t know the rest. He’s told them as much.

“We’re not talking,” he says.

“Talking, face to face or -,”

“Talking, in any way,” Tony tells Clint who purses his lips thoughtfully and says, “But those notes…,”

“He gives you notes?” Nat chirps in, having moved in closer in the span of last minute. Tony scowls at her.

“He draws comics on post-its and gives them to Tony,” Rhodey supplies.

“Tony’s a rat and Rogers’ a bunny. Real cute,” Clint grins, “Show her, Tones.”

Tony shuts him up with a glare but Natasha’s already holding out a hand, carefully plucked brow raised in challenge.

Giving up, Tony pulls out the folded collection of the longer sticky sticky-notes from his back pocket. “It's a mouse. Not a rat.” 

He watches Natasha read through them, her face remaining stoic throughout until the end when she holds them out for his taking and remarks, “Cute.”

“Shut up,” Tony grumbles, pocketing them back.

“And you carry them with you all the time?”

“I thought you have an important assignment?” He scowls at her.

She levels him with her infamous no-shit stare. “Why are you not talking to him?”

Tony sees Rhodey and Clint share a look before busying themselves with the paints. He disregards them for Nat and answers her. After all, she’s the only one who’s yet to know about last weekend.

“He urm. He got back with his girlfriend.”

“He told you?”

“I saw him. They were kissing at Sharon’s party.”

“I thought you said they broke up?”

“That’s what he told me!” Tony loses his cool for a second, realises it and recollects himself. But Natasha’s face says it’s too late, she’s computed his reaction already.

“Did you ask him about it?”

“No. I told him to fuck off,” Tony grumps, scuffing the floor with his sneaker.

Natasha hums, leaning back against the desk, a pinched expression on her face. “But he still sends you those notes.”

“Slips ‘em in when I’m not looking.” Tony shakes his head, “Maybe he just wanted an out from this stupid project,” he sighs heavily, attempting a light hearted comment as he smirks at Nat.

But Natasha’s not listening, lost in her own thoughts which Tony leaves her to. He’s got tons of work to do anyway. Like a wall to paint.

They’re collectively scolding Clint for getting the pink to white ratio wrong when Natasha speaks again.

“Text him,” she says.

Rhodey and Tony fall silent, looking at each other and at Clint as well.

“What?” Tony laughs nervously. “I’m not doing that.”

“Gonna play collector to his comic till you die then?”

Tony bristles.

“Geez, Nat. No need to be so morbid all the time.”

She silences him with a stare, “Send him a text. Tell him, he either chooses you or he stops with those notes.”

Tony blinks, fingers immediately reaching for his back pocket but stops when Natasha’s gaze falls on them. She gives him a pointed look. “It’s not fair of him to lead you on.”

“He’s not leading me on,” Tony mumbles.. 

“Are you sure about that?” Rhodey bumps his shoulder lightly. An encouraging smile plays along his lips. Tony glances at Clint and sees the same look on his face.

“So, what do I write exactly,” he sighs, pulling out his phone.

_Date me or quit sending those notes_ glares at him as he hesitates. “Do I add an angry emoji?” He looks up at the mastermind behind it; Nat.

“Are you five?” Clint cringes. Natasha tips her head in his direction, wordlessly executing _what he said._

“Just send it,” Rhodey urges. Hunched next to Tony on top of a desk they share while Nat and Clint share another, paint drying on his brush’s bristle.

Tony taps the blue button. “There,” he announces. “I did it.”

Clint raises a hand for high-five which he meets weakly. Rhodey tousles his hair while Natasha silently glares at the phone until it beeps just a few seconds after he sent his text.

Tony stares at his phone and then looks at her.

“What? You need me to tell you how to open the text now?” She snipes at him.

“Dude, what does it say?” Clint bumps into his side, buzzing with excitement. Natasha rolls her eyes at him.

Tony glances at Rhodey and taps on the message at his silent nod. He’s not usually like this, but apparently, it’s what Steve Rogers has made of him.

“He says he wants to talk.” He reads the reply out loud. Another beep comes through; “He asks if I’m free.”

Clint begins to coo but a kick to his shin from Nat shuts him up.

“What’re you gonna say?” She asks.

Tony looks at her, confused. He was, after all, under the impression that she was dictating him throughout this process. But she raises her brows at him, following her question.

“Tell him you’re busy,” Rhodey quips helpfully.

Tony looks at him and thinks about it. “I’m gonna say I’m busy with this shitty mural he’d abandoned,” he decides.

He looks over at Nat who simply shrugs; your text, your words. He looks at Clint who tells him seriously, “No emoji please.”

Tony steps on his foot the moment he sends the text.

“Ow!”

This time, no reply comes.

Ten seconds.

_A minute._

**Five minutes.**

“You think green will work?” Clint asks Rhodey who looks relieved to knuckle his shoulder and start a banter about Clint’s artistic skills with him.

“Forget about it.” Natasha tells Tony in the hum of the boys’ raising voice. “Take me for ice cream after this. I want mango and coffee.”

Tony blinks and blinks before he smiles up at her. “Two flavours that don’t mix,” he comments.

“Fuck you. Don’t judge,” Nat flicks at his nose, pecking his cheek before she returns to her seat at the back of the classroom.

 **Seven minutes**.

“I want ice cream too!” Clint wines when Tony tells him about their plan.

**Nine minutes.**

“The football team requested to use the court for training this week,” Rhodey mentions conversationally, “I’m gonna tell them no.”

Tony's hand pauses in its repetitive stroke against the wall. He gawks at his best friend, “You can’t do that.”

Rhodey shrugs, dipping his brush in the paint can. “You’ll hear about my power once the complaints start pouring in.” He tosses a devilish smile over his shoulder.

Tony shakes his head. Couldn’t help but snort at him. “Don’t,” he says. “He’s not even in the team.”

“His best friend is.”

“Yeah, but Barnes doesn’t deserve it.” Tony sighs, bending over to dip his own brush. “It’s not worth it,” he tells Rhodey. “Trust me,” he adds when Rhodey looks unconvinced.

**10 minutes**

“I can send him dead roaches.” Clint offers good naturedly.

“I’ll tell him it’s you and he’ll shove them down your throat,” Tony grunts at him. “Seriously. Stop.”

Clint pokes his tongue out at him in retaliation. Tony wonders who gave this guy permission to accuse other people of being five years old. He doesn’t vocalize it, but he sure does poke at Clint’s side just when he’s getting the straightest damned stroke of paint. The line wiggles out of track.

“Fuuuck! Tony you, fucking bastard!” Clint lunges for him, but Tony neatly steps aside, letting him catch the air.

A big grin breaks across his face at Clint’s second attempt, but before his third, someone knocks on the door.

All of them pause to look in its direction.

“Who is it?” Clint asks them dumbly. Rhodey rolls his eyes at him and Tony’s distracted by the beeping from his phone.

He pulls it out. Reads the text, looks up at his friends, reads a few times over just to be sure and his palms begin to get clammy. 

“It’s Steve.” He tells them.

Clint’s jaw falls and so does Rhodey’s. Nat’s hand squeezes his shoulder, shocking him out of his skin. She orders, “Okay boys, time to pack up,” before Tony could express his surprise.

Another set of knocks, three quiet ones followed by a text; “Can I come in?”

“Get out!” Tony whisper-shouts at his friends who’re scrambling for their stuffs. “Through the back door!” he commands when Clint rushes to the front one.

The instant all three of them are huddled at the back door, Tony opens the front one, signalling them to spill out just as Steve steps in.

“Hey,” Steve greets, slightly breathless. He looks like he ran here; windblown hair and flushed cheeks.

“Hey,” Tony answers, taking a step back, making space for him.

Steve gaze stays fixed on Tony, drinking him in even as he shuts the door behind him.

For a while, they don’t speak. Simply taking each other in; studying the others face and their body, missing the way Steve stands or fidgets because he can never stand still.

Tony blinks, telling himself to not to be so stupid when it comes to Steve Rogers, but fuck. He just cannot do it.

“What are you doing here?” Tony asks, swallowing down the strange lump in his throat. He steps away from Steve, back to the wall, where it still looks as horrible as it did yesterday.

“Looking for you,” Steve says, following him, and he too stands. Staring at the wall, marvelling at its ugliness. “I see you’ve started repainting.”

“Maria’s at my throat,” Tony shrugs. “Don’t think she will hesitate to knock on my apartment door demanding I get it done tonight.”

Steve snorts and when Tony looks, he’s sucking his lower lip in, seemingly thinking over his next words.

When he says, “Wanna Jackson Pollock it?” Tony blinks, confused. “What?”

“Jackson Pollock,” Steve turns to him. His backpack is slung over one shoulder, blonde hair sticking out haphazardly and he looks as breathtaking as he always does to Tony. “Want me to show you?”

“Sure,” Tony answers before he could think.

Steve grins at him, dropping his backpack fluidly onto a clean patch of the floor and taking off his jacket. He’s in a black t-shirt, matching Tony’s in tone and its simplicity.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Tony rasps out, working his throat. He feels slightly light headed. The last time Steve had taken anything off of himself, they were tangled in a bed, kissing and kissing until the world disappeared around them.

Steve looks up from where he’s bent, picking at one of those brushes Rhodey and Clint had left behind. He's a few inches lowered from Tony’s standing height and when he looks up, his baby blue eyes shine from under his long lashes, stunning. Tony sucks a breath in to steady himself.

“How’s Peggy?” He asks Steve, careful to not let any distaste slip into his tone.

“Why are we talking about Peggy?” Steve stands up, forgoing the brushes to take a step towards Tony.

Tony huffs out a laugh, stepping back. “I don’t know. Maybe because she’s your girlfriend.”

“She’s not,” Steve denies.

“Don’t lie.” Tony snaps at him. “I saw you two kissing at Sharon’s party.”

“We’re over.” Steve takes another step towards Tony. Insistent.

This time Tony doesn’t step back. He simply looks Steve in the eyes and says, “You said the same thing the other day only to shove your tongue down her throat the very next day.”

Steve shakes his head, not moving anymore forward. “Not this time.” He says, “The last time I told you, I don’t know, I thought you looked shocked that I ended it. And Peggy – Peggy knows me too well for a very long time and I just –,” Steve stops, breathing in deep before he lets out, “Ever since I saw you, you’re the only one that matters. I want a relationship with you, Tony. But I thought you weren’t ready to commit -,”

“I am,” Tony cuts him off. Almost shouts it out aloud.

Steve blinks. “Yeah?” he asks, voice so soft like that Saturday afternoon when he’d cradled Tony’s face and told him he’d never felt this way ever before.

“I want to commit. To you,” Tony tells him truthfully.

Steve lashes flutter as if he’s trying hard not to blink. To not miss the way Tony looks right then.

“Me too,” he exhales before scooping Tony up in his arms, mouth meshing together in the warmest, wettest worshipful dance and he swings Tony around in the paint stinking classroom of their college.

Jackson Pollock.

Tony swears he’ll take that name to his grave.

“There,” Steve says, flicking the bristles of a freshly coated paint brush at the wall. Tony looks from the tasteless splatter of black paint to Steve. He’s met by an amused face; the afternoon sun lighting his full-blown grin so beautifully it twists something warm and tight in Tony.

Tony minces on his responding smile, pinches his thigh to stop being so smitten and he asks, “What is this?”

He watches as Steve takes another dip in a different paint can – green – and flicks it at the wall, some droplets overlapping, some not and he turns with that same full grin to Tony.

“Jackson Pollock,” he presents with a single-handed wave at the questionable result, “He usually splatters paints and pours them making a mess and calls it art. I thought we could try that.”

Tony would rather bite his tongue than say no to that face, so he dunks his brush and splatters a good amount of blood red onto the wall.

“Huh,” Steve cocks his head studying it. “You did it wrong.” He informs softly.

Tony gawks at him. “No, I did not. No one can do wrong with this. This is just flicking paint. You have to really suck to fail at it.”

“Yeah,” Steve turns to him, lips wobbling, “I just didn’t want to be the one to say that to you.”

Tony opens his mouth then snaps it shut and glares at the now laughing man. Going for a second dunk, this time, instead of flicking the paint at the wall, he flicks them at Steve. Covering him with dots of red that contrasts beautifully with his light toned-skin.

Steve recovers from his shock quickly, swiping a paint covered fingertip across Tony’s cheek.

It starts like that; paints and laughter all fully clothed. But somewhere along that line, Steve ducks and kisses Tony and the brushes fall.

Next, their t-shirts come off.

Then their pants with belts still looped in their buckles.

And then Steve pushes Tony up the wall, almost all of him now covered in paint and he kisses him, paint covered fingers dancing across warm skin, smudging more and more until only about five percent of Tony’s skin was untainted.

Tony doesn’t hold back either; dragging palms across Steve's face as he cups his cheeks and sucks on his tongue, trails red, blue and white coated fingers down Steve’s chest. Lower and lower, leaving not an inch unpainted.

Then he smacks a hand over Steve’s ass and squeezes as he pulls him closer. His cock throbbing from the friction; wedged between their warm bodies and every time it drags across Steve’s hard erection, he shivers.

“What if somebody walks in?” He pants as Steve takes his and Tony’s cock into his hand and starts a rhythm.

“No one will.” Steve nips under his jaw, teeth dragging down the column of his throat as he breathes; hot and wet across Tony’s skin.

“But -,” Tony pauses, unable to stop the shudder that wrecks down his spine. He clutches onto Steve and clings on. “What if?” He exhales a sigh as Steve swipes a thumb over his wet slit.

“I locked the door when I came in.” Steve kisses his shoulder, opens his mouth and bites; starting gently and he sinks his teeth harder and harder as he goes.

Tony whimpers into his neck, finding purchase in Steve’s naked ass. Now slippery from all the paint and good God, they’re both going to stain like hell after this.

But in that moment, nothing matters except for the way Steve sucks at his skin and marks him as his own. The way he strokes Tony into completion and stops in pursuit of his own just to marvel at the face Tony makes when he comes undone. And to kiss him. And gets distracted in kissing him that Tony bats his hand away and takes his cock into his own hand.

Then it’s all about working Steve until he comes and comes and sighs and smiles into Tony’s shoulder. Until he’s all limp and happy and honest to god, fucking _shines_ when he blinks up at Tony.

And Tony falls in love with him.

As if he hasn’t already.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to develop a multi-chapter story inspired by skam france (elu) initially. i still have the rough draft but the interest has dwindled. idk if i'll get back to it later, until then, this can be a stand alone piece.


End file.
